


A Thousand Years

by beng



Series: Arrangements From Afterlife [3]
Category: Dragon Age II, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: A King is his kingdom, Arkenstone - Freeform, Before the quest, Blue mountains, Darktown, Durin's Day, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Moment of truth, Songfic, Stone Sense, tags will evolve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaps of faith, boldness, hope — those are the things that will carry you through, whether you are a struggling refugee afraid to open your heart, or a rich merchant's daughter whose prince is leaving on a deadly quest. Without them, a dwarven archer couldn't stand up for his love, and a king could never come home. This story is about those things of love and courage.</p><p>(A collection of companion drabbles to Dragonsolver, written as a songfic to Christina Perri's "A thousand years")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mercenary and the Healer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iscatterthemintimeandspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iscatterthemintimeandspace/gifts).



_Heart beats fast_  
 _Colors and promises_  
 _How to be brave?_  
 _How can I love when I'm afraid to fall?_  
 _But watching you stand alone,_  
 _All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow._

 

With one hand, Hawke was clutching at the shallow gash in her side, and with the other she was holding a sack of spindleweed over her shoulder. She was exhausted from the long march from the Sundermount, and she was hungry and injured and annoyed. The prospect of returning to Uncle Gamlen’s draughty, grim hovel, and to Mother’s rambling about the halcyon days of her youth, did nothing to invigorate her.

Her life was coming apart at the seams. She despaired trying to hold it all together, to find work, to feed her family, to find an escape. It left her empty, a bare husk of the savvy girl she’d been before the Blight. She was nothing but a tight-wound coil of ruthless magic and an all-consuming fear of failure, of remaining forever this poor, cold and hungry.

Hawke almost crashed down the stairs when the worn strap of her staff broke and the weapon fell under her feet. Growling under her breath, the mage got up, collected her things and continued on her way through the dark, toxic tunnels of the Undercity. Delivering the herbs to the healer while they were still fresh was about the only thing that a despised Fereldan refugee like Hawke could do to help.

The lantern above the door of Anders’ clinic cast an orange glow on the rough stone walls. Near the door, there was a simple ceramic bowl of milk on the floor. Hawke felt her lips tug up in a smile, and a small part of her exhaustion lifted from her shoulders.

The mage paused before entering, her bloody, juice-stained hand resting on the door in a silent caress. Maybe he was already asleep? Maybe she should just sneak in silently and leave the sack there for him to find in the morning?

Shaking her head at her sudden and ridiculous timidity, Hawke pushed the door open and stepped inside. She took in the rickety beds, the rough wooden tables, the small altar. Silver light was warring with gold, as moonlight flooded the hall, mixing with the yellow glow of the few tallow candles.

And in the middle of that late night stillness, stood Anders in his worn, grey tunic, left hand outstretched and a bright blue feathery glow emanating from it. It swirled around him, rising and expanding till it reached the high ceiling of the hall, gleaming like the southern aurora of the frozen swamps beyond the Korcari Wilds.

Hawke held her breath, mesmerized by the view. She had never thought magic could be so beautiful. She had seen its use in battle, and in politics, and in healing, but never like this — called upon for no other reason than the blinding beauty of the spell.

Hawke watched the play of light on the healer’s pointy features, his russet hair and threadbare shirt. She watched him draw back his shoulders, a small smile growing on his lips and amber eyes glancing up at the dancing blue swirls of magic.

It was light and fire sparkling with life, pulsing with hope and the force of conviction. In this moment, he was so much more than a healer from Darktown. Schooled in the Circle, then escaped, travelled, experimented, joined with a spirit and committed to his craft, he _was_ magic.

Standing still on the threshold, Hawke forgot how to breathe, she forgot how to talk. She couldn’t look away from the blatant display of what the Chantry considered a curse; for people like her, it was as natural as breathing.

She realized she was in love with the rebellious mage.

It was a fresh, terrifying thought that settled in with the rest, gnawing on her mind, shouting she could not afford it; not now, not ever. Suddenly, it was too much, and she couldn’t take the fear anymore, not when it would keep her in such darkness and despair. Right in front of her stood a man who had escaped the Circle Tower of Ferelden, who had escaped the Grey Wardens and evaded the Templars for years. He was possessed and he lived in Darktown. If he could keep it together, then, perhaps, so could she.

Remembering the words of the Witch from the Wilds, Hawke swallowed. Then, she toed the precipice of her fear and leapt.

After all, that was the only way she could learn whether she could fly.

Taking a deep breath, Hawke entered the clinic and lowered the sack on the floor, grinning when the healer jumped from the unexpected sound.

“Hey, Anders! I brought you those weeds you asked...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know I should be writing Dragonsolver, but this happened instead. I'm sorry. My muse and work schedule are fickle and untrustworthy characters, so I write what I can when I can...
> 
> Dedicated to iscatterthemintimeandspace because I sort of promised her to write a songfic, and because she keeps me writing despite the circumstances ;)


	2. The Girl and the Warrior

_I have died every day waiting for you_  
 _Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you_  
 _For a thousand years_  
 _I'll love you for a thousand more_

 

The dwarf lay on her back, staring up at the dark velvet canopy of her bed. Her honey blond curls were fanned around her head, her small hands with the precious gem rings clasped on her stomach, her heart aflutter.

She had kissed him.

He was leaving in a week, and already she couldn’t imagine how she would survive the long months of separation. Even if her parents didn’t make meeting him easy, she still knew where he was and how he was doing. She would catch his glance or a mischievous smile, they would brush their hands at the gatherings and maybe even manage a dance when everyone was too drunk to notice the way she looked at him, like he was her sun and moon.

Feya knew she was rushing in, opening her heart to a prince of Durin who was going on a quest to the other end of the world. She was still very young, and that undertaking was risky. She should have concentrated on some craft instead, started to make a name for herself, so her parents would be proud.

Unfortunately, Master Merb’s youngest didn’t care for any of the trades. Her heart was her only calling.

Today had been the spring festival, when days had grown longer than nights. It was something the dwarves of the Blue Mountains had borrowed from the Men, and when Thror and Thrain had led their people there, the tradition had spread.

There had been songs and dancing, abundant drinking and toasts to a long summer that would favour the crops and the game, keep the roads dry and allow for easy travel.

He had found her and, hand in hand, they had sneaked away through some vegetable patches; the bottom of her skirt had become soaked with the dew. Feya had laughed it off, but he had picked her up in his arms and carried her over the cabbage rows. When he had finally put her down, at the edge of the birch grove behind his home, she had stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

Closing her eyes, Feya recalled the feel of his scratchy moustache against her lips, the way he had gone still before wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her back as if she was the air that he breathed. She remembered his warmth seeping through his soft tunic, the light trace of ale on his breath and the smell of bonfire smoke in his hair. His sword-roughened hand had sunk in her curls, pulling her closer, and then closer still, until there was nothing but their wrinkled clothes between them. Opening her mouth, she had yielded to his kisses, lost in his strength and his stormy blue eyes.

A myriad of sensations had overwhelmed her, leaving her a panting, dizzy mess in his arms. She prayed to Mahal she would never forget.

“I will come back to you,” he had sworn, his voice a hoarse whisper. “A crown prince of Erebor, or a simple swordsman, but I will not die on that quest, I promise you that.”

She remembered the heat of his neck as she slid her hands beneath his golden mane. “I will wait for you,” she had said, “I don’t care if you’re a prince, or a swordsman or blacksmith. My heart is yours, now and forever.”

Lying on her bed, Feya touched the beads in her hair. Two, because he hadn’t wanted to divide the set. “Let that stand for my promise,” he’d said. “I love you, kitten. You will be my wife.”

Her hands had reached up to cup his face as they touched their foreheads. They kissed, slowly, languidly, learning and discovering each other, savouring the moment and fooling themselves that the day of parting would never come.

She had put her own golden bead in his hair — a promise and a claim that had to withstand time and space, and bring him safely back home. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she made the braid. She wanted to do this every single morning for the rest of her life. She wanted to envelop him in her love. She wanted to cherish him, the crown prince, the warrior, she wanted to be the one who kneaded his shoulders at the end of a long day and combed her fingers through his thick mane, to fall asleep by his side and to be woken by his caresses.

The thought that he might never return, defeated by treacherous elves, or orcs, or other monsters, that he might be lost, or sick, or injured, sat like a spear in her heart, but she put on a brave face and smiled at him, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

“There,” she said with a breathless grin. “Mine.”

As the morning dawned, Feya got up and straightened the bed covers. Her family was rich, even richer than his, although they couldn’t trace their origin to Durin the Deathless. Be it as it may, they could not know about this until her prince came back.

And when he was back… Feya cast a speculating glance at the chest sitting in the corner of her room. Walking over and throwing the lid open, she pulled out a bale of blue velvet and a variety of embroidery yarns. The girl laid the fabric out on her bed and smoothed out the wrinkles, a soft smile playing on her lips. As her dream would take shape, stitch after stitch, she would wait and endure.

She could sew, but love was little Feya’s only true craft. Fortunately, her heart was overflowing with it.


	3. The King and the Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Erebor is a 'she'. And of course, Thorin has some pretty good stone sense (which unfortunately doesn't work in the Shire), otherwise he'd have never found his way around the Mountain.
> 
> Unbetaed because gifts are given, not earned, so if anything sounds strange, blame the fact that I'm not a native speaker :P

 

_And all along I believed I would find you_  
 _Time has brought your heart to me_  
 _I have loved you for a thousand years_  
 _I'll love you for a thousand more_

 

Since he first saw her snow-capped peak from the top of the Carrock, thoughts of Erebor had been growing in his mind, steadily pushing out and replacing all others. She called, she beckoned, and Thorin’s gaze turned to flint, his beating heart sealed as flames in an opal.

With every step that brought him closer to the Mountain, he chipped away bit by bit all that might hold him back. He left Kili in Laketown, because the lad was injured and he didn’t want to risk his life any more than he wanted to risk his quest. He didn’t argue when Fili, too, decided to remain behind. Perhaps it was for the best, as Thorin was not sure he would come back alive. Let his sister-sons live, then, and return to their home amid the gentle streams and fragrant pines of the West.

The home of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was the Lonely Mountain. He was stone of her stone, and her fire was in his blood.

He didn’t wait for the wizard once they reached the overlook above Dale. They didn’t have the time, and, focused and alert, he urged the Company onwards — over the foothills clad in the greens, browns and greys of broken basalt and moss, through the snow drifts and the clouds slowly tumbling down the slopes.

Thorin’s heart lurched at his burglar’s excited cry and the sight of the gigantic statue, whose arms and shoulder formed the path to the secret door. This was the bold skill and cunning of the dwarves of Erebor. This was the scale of their craftsmanship, not coal mines and cabbage rows of the Blue Mountains.

He climbed the steps, boots finding sure purchase, hands caressing the carved details of the ancient stone warrior. Against all odds, finally — _finally_ — he was here.

“Let all those who doubted us rue this day!” he called, lifting the key and letting the sun glint off the grey iron. He felt victorious. He was light as the wind and strong as steel, drunk on the closeness of the Mountain, on the precious few minutes that separated him from her halls.

However, they still had to find the keyhole.

And they looked. They searched everywhere, in every nook and cranny, under each stone and patch of moss and lichen. Nothing. The sun slid inexorably lower, and still nothing.

“We’re losing the light! Come on!”

Cold dread took hold of Thorin. He exchanged a glance with Balin and stared at the sun, willing it to shine longer, or the ragged western cliffs to sink into the ground. Still nothing.

“Break her down!”

Thorin cringed at the sound of axes ringing off the wall. Each swing cut him like a knife, to think that he was trying to break his way into Erebor, and to hear the Mountain denying him. It was wrong, so wrong! He couldn’t believe it. All his life he… All this quest…

Balin stopped them. Said it was no use, that powerful magic lay on the door.

Thorin stared incredulously at the last sliver of sun disappearing behind the ridge.

What had they missed?

“There’s no more to be done. We had but one chance.” Balin’s words fell heavily, and still Thorin refused to believe them. This was not how it was supposed to end. They had the map and the key, they had come to the right place at the right time.

And the Lonely Mountain had refused him.

Thorin let the key fall from his numb fingers. The dream was over. The most he could do now was to get back to his nephews and return to his people. Crownless. Homeless. Forever a beggar.

Refused.

His hand trailed along the wall as he slowly climbed down the steps. He had fallen behind, unwilling to talk, unwilling to even think. He stopped every now and then, vaguely aware that the hobbit had remained behind him. Thorin sat down on a step, resting his head in his hands and letting his hair fall over his face. He would gladly remain there forever, until ravens plucked out his dead eyes and the wind scattered his bones over the foothills below. He couldn’t find it in him to get up and move on.

He didn’t know how he had thought he could walk away from Erebor for the second time in his life. Maybe if he had got the Arkenstone, maybe then he could have torn himself away long enough to gather an army that could kill the dragon. If needed, he would have pulled the other dwarf lords by their beards, kicking and screaming, until they remembered their ancient oaths to the line of Durin.

Thorin glanced up as a thin sickle of moon peeked out from behind the clouds, turning the valley into molten silver. Good, he thought tiredly. It will be easier to set up the camp and start the-

“The keyhole! Come back! It’s the light of the _moon_ , the _last moon of autumn_!”

Thorin jerked his head around and clambered to his feet in a blink of an eye. Had the hobbit found the entrance? Truly Mahal had guided the wizard’s choice! Thorin bolted up the stair.

He reached the ledge just in time to step on the cord of the falling key, not even surprised about the incredible luck. It was his key, after all. His key to his mountain, and he was one with the mountain.

The rest of the company had returned as well, staring at Bilbo in wonder and relief.

Feeling as in a dream, Thorin walked over to the door, inserted the key and turned it. The mechanism gave a low thud, invisible bolts receding into the walls. Thorin swallowed past the tightness in his chest. _This_ was how it was meant to be, how he had hoped and planned for almost a year, since the moment Gandalf had given him the key and the map.

Bracing himself against the smooth stone, Thorin pushed, and the Mountain yielded.

“Erebor…”

He stepped inside, reaching out to the rough-hewn walls and caressing them with his sword-calloused hands. He knew them. He loved them, and had thought to never see them again. He recognized the stone, he knew the halls that the passage led to. Pressing his back to the wall, he remembered the Mountain as she was filled with golden light and the low thunder of the forges, the bustle of people and the clinking of axes.

As the rest of his company admired the bas-relief above the door, Thorin rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt the stone, all the tons of massive basalt and granite around him, the lodes of gold and silver, the open rush of underground streams and the hidden silence of crystals and geodes. It sang to him, like the Blue Mountains never had. He was of the line of Durin, and this was his home.

He heard the steady beating of the heart of the mountain, and he knew he would rather die than leave without it.

“Arkenstone,” Bilbo was wondering. “And what’s that?”

Snapping his eyes open, Thorin took a deep breath.

“That, Master Burglar, is why you are here.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's my all-time favorite episode from the two movies, and now you know why, in my heart of hearts, I can't seriously ship Thorin with anyone. The stone sense comes from Dragon Age, but I think it's a quite generic thing for dwarves in fantasy literature as well.
> 
> The last chapter of this will have to wait for some developments in Dragonsolver, so be patient, my dear few readers.


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